Impact
Eugene N. Miya
There is a cardinal rule of travel, all too often overlooked,
that I call "The Law of Inverse Appreciation."
It states: "The less there is between you and the environment, the
more you appreciate the environment."
Every walker knows, even if he has not thought about it, the law's
most obvious application: the bigger and most efficient your means of
travel, the further you become divorced from the reality through which
you are travelling. A man learns a thousand times more about the sea from
the "Kon Tiki" than from the "Queen Mary;" euphorically more about space
at the end of a cord than inside a capsule. On land, you remain closer
in touch with the countryside in a slow moving old open touring
car than in a modern, air-conditioned, tinted-glass-window,
80-miles-per-hour-and-never-notice-it behemoth. And you come closer
in touch on a horse than any car; in closer touch on foot than on any horse.
But the law has a second and less obvious application:
your appreciation varies not only according to what you travel "in"
but also according to what you travel "over." Drive along a
freeway in any kind of car and you are in almost zero contact with the
country beyond the concrete. Turn off onto a minor highway and you are
a notch closer. A narrow country road is better still.
When you bump slowly along a jeep trail you begin at last to sense those
vital details that turn mere landscape into living countryside. And not
long ago, on the East African savanna -- where it was at
the time not considered destructive to drive cross-country over the pale
grasslands -- I discovered an extending corollary to my law:
"The further you move away from any impediment of appreciation,
the better it is."
It is less obvious that these same discrepancies persist when you are
travelling on foot. Any blacktop road holds the scrollwork of the country
at arm's length: the road itself keeps stalking along on stilts or
grubbing about in a trough, and your feet travel on harsh and
sterile pavement. Turn off onto a dusty jeep trail and the detail moves
closer. A foot trail is better still. But you do not really
have to break free until you step off the trail and walk through waving
grass or woodland growth or across rock or smooth sand or (most perfect
of all) virgin snow. Now you can read all the details,
down to the print. Drifting snow crystals barely begun to blurr the four
footed signature of the marten that padded past this lodgepole pine.
Or a long-legged lizard scurries for cover, kicking up
little spurts of sand as it corners around a bush. . .And always, in snow
or sand or rock or seascape grass there is, as far as you can see in
any direction, no sign of man.
That, I believe, is being in touch with the world.
--Colin Fletcher
While some people take dispute with the above as being "elitist,"
counters those those calls of elitism exist. Those counters are not
included at this point for several reasons which not be elaborated.
Beth Crespo
impact than an RV? This supposed virtue of car-camping escapes me.
We recently purchased a 4x4 pickup truck with a pop-up camper
and I figure we'll have far less impact since we won't set-up camp!
I'll find out this weekend at the Great Sand Dunes!
I find it rather sad that so many people condem all RV camping
and feel virtuous. There is a wide range of "RVs" only the
extreme high end meets the standard "Winnebago" description.
Why is staying in a motel more virtuous than camping in an RV?
Is walking the only virtuous method of enjoying the backcountry?
My Opinion,
Beth Crespo